Eighth Day
by OldSFfan
Summary: House and his family celebrate Chanukah, but nothing is ever simple for Gregory House, M.D. AU one-shot, ficlet, several years after Season 8, in honor of the holiday. T for language, just to be safe.


House, Wilson, Cuddy, and other characters from the series House M.D. are not mine, and this fiction is not intended to violate the owners' copyrights. This is AU, several years after Season 8. Bobby House, Fiona Buchanan Wilson, and Rebecca Wilson are original characters.

The Eighth Day

The menorah shone brightly with all of the candles lit for the eighth day of Chanukah. It was placed out of Rachel's reach on top of the entertainment center. Below it the family room had come to look like a repository for wrapping paper and empty boxes. A giggling Rachel sat in the middle of the chaos with a pirate hat on her hair. Mercifully, Bobby House and Wilson's newborn daughter Rebecca were too little to contribute to the mess. Bobby was giggling in the playpen in the corner of the room, testing his ability to sit up, clutching a squeaky stuffed toy dog. He had worn himself out standing for a moment, hanging onto the wooden rails of the playpen, garnering the awe and terror of his parents and the gushing admiration of his grandmothers. Fiona rocked Rebecca in the baby carrier while she slept, her little knit cap covering her baby fine red hair. Doting grandmothers Blythe House and Arlene Cuddy seemed, finally, to have run out of presents in their seemingly bottomless bags.

Fiona's parents lived in Glasgow. Wilson liked them, but after the evening's orgy of gift-giving, he cringed to think about their planned visit at Christmas to meet their new granddaughter-it would look like a potlatch.* Wilson's parents, who had despaired of ever having a grandchild from their second son, would visit in April when they returned from their winter home in Florida. Their presents had arrived for the first day of Chanukah. Then Wilson realized that he hadn't seen House for a while, at least since Rachel had torn open the package from Blythe.

Wilson walked into the kitchen. The remains of the Chanukah latke dinner covered the counter. Dessert had consisted of ice cream and apple fritters, continuing the holiday theme of foods fried in oil. Wilson figured he would have to put in extra time at the gym this week to make up for it, but still no House. A little movement on the deck outside caught his eye.

Wilson opened the French door and walked through. It was cold, so he closed the door hastily behind him. Light from the kitchen brightened the steam from his breath in the cold air. House sat, coatless, on the built-in wooden bench by the deck rail. His cane rested against the railing beside him. "Too much wrapping paper?" he asked his friend.

House shrugged. He held his present from Lisa, a boxed set of CDs of New Orleans Preservation Hall jazz, in both hands.

"What's wrong, House?"

He shrugged again. "Nothing. It's a little intense in there. The kids look happy."

"Rachel looks happy. Bobby looks like an eight-month-old who just discovered he has feet. Rebecca is a newborn." Wilson noticed that House still clutched the CD set. "You used to exchange presents with Stacy."

"That was different."

Wilson looked back through the glass doors to the family gathering. "Your mother," he said, realizing what had happened. "You didn't get presents, did you?"

"I got them. He wouldn't let me keep them."

Wilson took a minute to digest that. "My God," he murmured. "Did your mother know that?"

"My dad said I couldn't tell her."

Wilson blew out a sigh through pursed lips and sat down next to House. "House," he began.

"It's all right, Wilson. I just needed to get away for a minute."

"Rachel loved that pirate songs CD you got her, though I'm not sure Lisa does. Lisa is wearing the earrings. Fiona can't wait to put the baby songs CD on the IPod at home so she can play it while she's nursing. I'll enjoy the golf magazine subscription, even though it's mostly going to make me feel guilty for not playing enough. You are very good at giving gifts. Your team wouldn't believe it, you know."

House barked a laugh. "Nolan says I have to stop playing games with the team. If I do stop, they'll do a differential on me."

"You just aren't good at getting gifts from people you care about."

House looked away, embarrassed. "It's okay, Wilson. I get my head shrunk weekly, plus all the other counseling sessions every month. You don't have to join in."

"No, I don't. My counselor says I shouldn't psychoanalyze you, just enjoy your company." He spread his hands helplessly. "Old habits are hard to break."

The curtain on the door was shoved aside again, then the door opened. Cuddy walked out. She pulled her turtleneck sweater higher against her chin against the chill. "There you are," she murmured. She took the elbow of his left arm. "A little much in there?" she asked.

"Yeah," he admitted.

"It's freezing. It's warm inside and with luck the grandmothers are running out of steam." She took Wilson's arm with her other hand.

House hoisted himself to his feet with a groan. "Right," he said, skepticism drawing the word out. "Your mother and mine, together, running out of steam? They're egging each other on." He picked up his cane and leaned on it.

Cuddy let go of Wilson and turned to House. She wrapped her arms around House's neck and kissed him soundly. "Happy Chanukah, Greg. It may be the last day of Chanukah, but it's the start of the holiday season I've waited for, for so long. We have our family. We have grandmas to spoil our children. We have your best friend and his family. We have you."

House clutched her wordlessly, CD set uncomfortable between them, and rested his forehead against hers. "What if it's all taken away, Lisa?" he murmured against her hair, forgetting Wilson was there.

"We can face anything if we're together." She took Wilson's arm again. "I'm freezing. Let's go inside."

* * *

*Potlatch: A potlatch is a gift-giving festival and primary economic system practiced by indigenous peoples of the Pacific Northwest. -Wikipedia


End file.
